


William’s Cabin

by Damdamfino



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flashback, Nudity, One Shot, shipping fodder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 16:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17532218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damdamfino/pseuds/Damdamfino
Summary: William has his own loop when he visits the park.





	William’s Cabin

**Author's Note:**

> Written during the airing of Season 2, I became intensely curious when we learned that William had his own cabin in the park.

There were peak times and low times at the park.

Certain times of the fiscal year when attendance was low and the flow of guests into the park dried up like an old well. Whether it be the time in the school year, the weather, flight cancellations, or simply another wave of economic anxiety, attendance to the park always fluctuated. William preferred to schedule his stays around the slow times. The cost of plane tickets and travel justified him staying for weeks at a time instead of mere days. Less guests meant less people to distract him or get in his way. When attendance was low, he could imagine, just for a little while, that all of this was made for him.

He loved the weeks away at the park. No internet, no phone calls, no emails, no deadlines. He could handle the loneliness. He could go days with no one but himself for company. Sometimes he liked to take a straight line in any direction and just explore what the park had to offer. When he was a boy he would read his books under a tree in his backyard and pretend he had been transported to a different time. Here, in the dead still of the grounds, he wanted to do the same - to do away with technology and pretend the outside world wasn’t there anymore.

He had been coming for years now. He knew this place like a second home. He had watched all the different loops play out, befriended every outlaw and sheriff in town. He worried he might grow bored soon, but he never did. Ford was so precise in his details - so meticulous with what he added that William always found something new of interest.

He never did truly worry about his safety. He knew he could never succumb to the elements. If he ever ran out of food or water, his path would miraculously cross with a friendly “traveler” who happened to have some untouched food or a cold canteen to quench his thirst before he could even realize his mouth was growing dry. Even if he wanted to pretend to worry, he could not. In the back of his mind a little voice would cry, _“It’s not real. It’s all manufactured. They’re not real. I will always be safe.”_ The fear he had once tasted was gone after the wool had been ripped from his eyes. He always knew it wasn’t real.

How could he not? Most trips to the park were for business. Reports filled with numbers and bar graphs, or demonstrations of new narratives and, of course… _him._ Perhaps the weak part of himself was defying his inner voice and still searching for the proof that these ‘things’ had some semblance of life in them somewhere. He didn’t want to let that hope go. Yet every trip, every loop, every goddamn infidelity, chipped it away piece by piece. Each vacation began with a visit that decided his enjoyment of the park - or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Some trips he liked to rush through and cause havoc. Other trips he liked to meander and take his time. Whatever mood he was in that week, he would chase it. But this trip was strictly for fun. No business meetings, no quality checks, no reports to fill out and return. He came because he wanted to. This was his vacation. He wasn’t in the mood to shoot and stab - not this time. This was one of the trips he wanted to relax. He put on the white hat on and kicked his boots up, just watching the narratives play out.

He had his own cabin tucked out far behind an oak tree curtain. It was so far off the beaten path that he didn’t have to worry about guests finding it. As far as many were aware, he wasn’t even here. There were only a handful of other privately owned cabins in the park - owned by men so wealthy and powerful their names were changed on the official records. The type of guests who come often enough to necessitate permanent accommodation are not the kind of person who want that information known publicly.

William had good reason for his cabin, he often assured himself. He wasn’t one of those sick perverts who came once a month to get their jollies off and gut a few kids. His was for strictly business. He came several times a year because he needed to perform many thorough quality checks. He was a majority shareholder. He was acting CEO of Delos. He did whatever he wanted with the parks. He was an experienced guest who didn’t need the tour guides or the tutorial homes for rest. Also, he had a particular set of items he liked to use when he was here, and he liked to know where his belongings were at all times. He did not like strangers touching his things.

He had spent the previous two days not out exploring the park and discovering new stories like he usually did, but this time he had stayed put, hiding from the hot sun and the hustle and bustle to instead spend the days lounging in his cabin. He opened the windows wide to let the cool breeze in and listen to the buzz of insects. He had brought a book and a few hobbies to keep him busy while he watched the sun rise and set from the comfort of his cabin. The quiet was refreshing. Sometimes he would even forget there was anything else in the room with him.

Dark mahogany colored curls spread out across the pillow next to him, and a woman stretched her arms out above her head. A glint of a white smile peaked out as she smiled and twisted around. William tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and tried to feign a smile in return. She didn’t seem to notice his insincerity.

She blinked away sleep and asked curiously, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I wanted to,” he answered. “Why? Do you want to leave?”

“Not if you promise to make it worth my while,” she teased with a devilish smile. She fluttered her fingers in the air, her fingertips stretching out to the wall, and William immediately wondered who wrote that particular line of code.

More often than not during his visits, he like having a host to keep him company for the same reason he liked the park. He liked looking at them. He liked to marvel at how life-like and beautiful they were. Sometimes he could envision the gears and wires underneath their skin, churning with each of their movements. Like an old reliable clock, the gears would turn and there was never a surprise movement. The hosts had no judgement - no ulterior motives or secret game. He could understand that.

She slid out from the bed and slinked over to the porcelain tub by the fire, her bare bottom swaying in the sunlight streaming through the open window. William’s eyes drank her in and followed her for a moment before he rolled onto his back and tucked his arms underneath his head. The western bluebirds outside grew louder and the hum of artificial cicadas drowned everything out.

She dropped herself into the warm tub and began to wash herself. As she splashed the water against her skin, she started to hum a light tune. It was beautiful, calming and exquisite. _He could stay here,_ he thought. He didn’t need to go. This was pleasant enough as is. This host was beautiful, witty, and surprisingly good conversation. William paused for a moment, dreading disrupting up the mood, but groaned and moved to get out of his bed. A stubborn sense of curiosity kept him awake, and he knew he needed to go to quiet it - for at least a day.

He dressed himself piece by piece. First his long johns, then a dirt-stained shirt. He pulled on his cleanest pants and topped his button down shirt with his nicest vest.

“Are you going somewhere, William?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, reaching down to pull his foot into a black ostrich leather boot. She glanced up, surprised at his tone.

“What would you like me to call you?”

“Everyone calls me Bill.” She pulled her cherry-pink lips into a wry frown, but continued washing herself.

He donned his white hat, pulling the brim tight against his forehead. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said.

“There are bandits out there,” the woman said, with another swipe of a sea sponge across her arm. “Don’t stray too far.”

He knew. Those bandits were east of here, and he was heading north. Without a word of thanks he left the host in the tub and shut the door of the cabin behind him. His body was growing stiffer and weaker than it used to be, but he pulled himself on his horse just as easily as ever. Forever a creature of habit, he headed north.

He knew the path like the back of his hand. He rode through the tall untamed grass, sometimes cutting close to the river to enjoy the view. His horse never needed to drink or eat or shit. The trip was nothing but walking as he traveled a few miles north, stopping only to splash crisp cold water on his face when the heat got too much.

An hour of horseback and several miles out, he found her. Her hair was as golden as the wild mustard seed around her.

A hand rose over her eyes to shield from the midday sun. “Hello,” she called.

For a moment he waited to see if her face lit up in recognition. He always hoped for that, but in the many times he met her, over and over again, she never recalled his name without him having to give it to her. She smiled, in the polite way that strangers greet each other, and he dismounted his horse.

“It’s a beautiful day,” she sighed as he walked closer. She turned back to her canvas, planting her hands firmly on her waist as she admired her work. “Have you ever seen anything so full of splendor?” Her painting was a pristine replica only the finely tuned hands of a machine could produce. Only... there was something different.

“You made the mountains green.”

He was surprised. The view in front of them was a landscape wrought with drought. Once luscious mountainside ripe from spring was now brown and yellow. The trees shriveled and dying and the grass gasping for water. Her painting could have been mistaken for a photograph if not for the stark difference in color.

“An artistic choice,” she answered with a proud grin. _God, she was so beautiful when she smiled._ “Everything can be a choice.”

 _No,_ he thought. _Nothing is really a choice. Not for you. Not for me. Not for anyone._

“Where are you traveling out to today?” she asked. “If you’re in need of some work or food, my family has a ranch not far from here. Papa’s always in need of some good help.”

A well-tuned pitch for adventure written by the best of salesmen, he knew. “No,” he said. “Not today, thank you. I’m on my way to see an old friend.”

“Oh,” she smiled, but the slight disappointment on her face was palpable. “Well, that’s mighty nice. It’s always good to see old friends.”

He smiled kindly, nodding in agreement but he couldn’t find his voice. Her optimism never failed to rekindle that little bit of lost hope in him. But her words still tasted bitter - though she didn’t know it.

“My name’s Dolores,” she said, quickly offering her hand for a firm handshake. “Maybe one day you can add me to that list, mister…?”

“William,” he said, taking her hand. “You can call me William.”

 

 

 


End file.
